


Good Kids Don't Smoke

by AliensInPleasure



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: But Peter Asks For It, Cigarettes, Dom Tony Stark, Dom/sub, Guilt, He needs a hug too, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Peter Parker Is Not A Good Kid, Peter Parker is Eighteen, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Some Kind Of Smoking Kink, Sub Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, authority kink, oversensitivity, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22002097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliensInPleasure/pseuds/AliensInPleasure
Summary: "What are you doing?"Do bank robbers feel nice like that when they get busted? Peter doubts it."Uhm, sm-smoking, Sir." He doesn't stop when he throws him a frightened look, doesn't stop but inhales again. It makes his head heavy and he likes it, loves–He loves the fear. Like the soft shadow of a monster, brushing his mind with just a glimpse of danger, exciting. Bad. Dirty.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Kudos: 80





	Good Kids Don't Smoke

He thinks it might have been the ads. Because doesn't it look good when they pop that cigarette between their beautiful lips, inhaling.

Stopping. And opening, they open their mouths and exhale not air but thick grey smoke, unhealthy, dirty, bad. Wrong.

But then, it could have been the kids at school. Not peer pressure, mind you, because Peter never actually wanted to stick around them. They are boring in their non-boringness, and they are the most boring when they creep next to the school between the cars at the parking lot and smoke and talk about girls.

Peter would never admit it, but sometimes it does even kind of appall him. Just a little bit, mind you. The kids at school and what they do, what they want, what they think about. He envies them too. Some time ago he even wanted to be like them – but he is not. He never will be, and the reason behind it might not only be the bite, it’s not only about his powers. He’s different to a degree that appalls not only him, but maybe everyone at school who knows him. 

It’s enough to be sure this isn't peer pressure but probably the longing for a secret.

When you do something wrong and no one knows about it but yourself, that’s the best kind of secret. It makes you feel proud. It shouldn't, and it still depends on what you are doing wrong, if it's a dirty smoke or robbing a bank. But probably those guys who rob a bank do feel proud. So long as no one busts them, right.

The cigarette tastes marvelous.

But doesn't he know. It's nothing to do with ads or the taste or carrying a sweet little secret. It's more simple. It's even chemical, but not in the way you might think now.

"What are you doing."

Do bank robbers feel nice like that when they get busted? Peter doubts it.

"Uhm, sm-smoking, Sir." He doesn't stop when he throws him a frightened look, doesn't stop but inhales again. It makes his head heavy and he likes it, loves–

He loves the fear. Like the soft shadow of a monster, brushing his mind with just a glimpse of danger, exciting. Bad. Dirty.

"Since when do you goddamn smoke, kid?" Mr. Stark's voice drawls with the game, promising something.

Something to happen. That  _ could  _ happen. If they  _ let  _ it happen. Funny thing, nothing ever happened before. The monster never got them. 

Peter slides to the edge of Mr. Starks worktable, inside Mr. Stark’s workshop, slowly letting his legs down. Not swinging. But opening them a bit, showing off, and he thinks of the beautiful men smoking cigarettes on billboards outside his apartment, how they’d do it. 

"Since, like, today," is what he says to that, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction of the older man, trying to hide it.

And he ducks a little, but hell he doesn't stop smoking. Not even in the face of Mr. Stark standing in front of him, only five meters away, eyes black like coal.

"Your first?"

The workshop around him grins cruelly and he opens his legs wider, it feels like grinning back, in a frightened way. 

"No huh. I had one before, in the morning. I sometimes smoke. Not – today is not really the first day, like-"

"Oh, are we lying now? I thought your aunt taught you manners. Good boys don't lie, right? Whatcha think?" Mr. Stark takes a step forwards, tracking every one of Peter's movements with his black, black eyes. It's haunting and objectionable and sweet.

That's it. That’s why he’s doing this.

"I'm- I’m not lying, Sir. I just, you know, smoke sometimes and either way, it's none of your business."

Another step.

"You smoke inside my workshop, kid. And I decide what’s my business, you are very much my business now, you realise that?" Mr. Stark doesn't stare but doesn't look away, and Peter thrives on the adrenaline hitting his stomach like a bomb, crackling. Ready to bust. Or getting busted. 

"No? I mean, yes. You want me to stop?" his voice says high, and he takes another pull from the cigarette. Letting it out slowly. He’s racing on the adrenaline highway, and no police officer his brain produces can stop him now.

"And what exactly do you mean with  _ do I want you to stop _ ? Do I want you to stop smoking here, or smoking in general?" One step more and Mr. Stark could touch his knee, just like that. "Do I want you to  _ stop,  _ period? Stop doing what you are doing right now, which is definitely not smoking. It’s – well. Let’s turn it around: Do  _ you  _ know what you are doing?"

Mr. Stark’s eyes might burn holes into Peter, like a cigarette could burn holes into skin. How nerve-wrecking and monstrous to stand in the spotlight of his attention like this, to play a game he knows nothing about. What if the monster were gonna get them?

"Yeah," he swallows, voice small. "I do, Mr. Stark."

So let them.

"Of course you do." 

And then then then

Then there are two hands on Peters knees, warm and firm, but not forcing. More holding his legs in place, slightly open. Peter is not naked but he asks himself if they will be by the end of this particular situation. Even if he wants them to be, because Mr. Stark looks fantastic in that black two-piece suit, heavy and authoritative and safe.

A harbour in the eye of the storm.

"So ... do you want me to stop?" he asks, breathing shallow. Brave heart beating way too fast, body aching for more, mind blacking out. It’s always like that, Peter’s senses exploding with every touch and the guilt, oh. Because he knows it’s cruel to push Mr. Stark like that, to make him want things he believes he shouldn’t want. And what he does know, too, is that Mr. Stark always finds a way to push back just as cruel.

Peter loves their games. Even though a good boy like him shouldn’t, right.

"I want me to stop, Peter," Mr. Stark finally steps between his legs, a warm body pushing his thighs apart. It shouldn’t get Peter hard, shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t. Yet it does, yet he pushed forward, warily putting his feet around the man, crossing his ankles on his back, gasping.

Peter blushes, looking anywhere but Mr. Stark’s eyes. Overwhelmed. There’s a tremor fighting its way through his hand holding the cigarette, and Peter thinks – he could come. Just from the slight pressure against the growing bulge inside his trousers, and it’s not only the contact, the touch. It’s the words too.

It’s fucked up.

"I-" He forgets I, forgets what  _ I  _ could mean. What comes after I?

"You?" It’s Mr. Stark closing his legs, slowly. Freeing himself from the loose grip. Of course Peter is stronger than him, he could always stop him, always. And they both know he would never.

Never.

"What if I don’t want you to stop?" Peter asks. It’s possible to think again, even though Peter’s not really fond of the whole process of thinking. He’d rather not let his mind drift too far into the realm of questions like why exactly he gets off on Mr. Stark’s guilt, and his anger and the scary longing he’s seen in those eyes for years.

Maybe if Peter stops to be good, Mr. Stark stops to think he needs to be good too.

"What do you want me to do then?"

"Tell me it’s not okay and d-do it anyway," Peter tries breathless, his head spinning and yet he leads the cigarette to his mouth, closes his lips around it and inhales one last time. The smoke claws at his throat, biting it sweetly, and when he let’s it go without turning away, the area between them turns a sick kind of grey. 

"Shouldn’t have asked." 

A spark of excitement crashes between his thighs, and that’s why. That’s why he likes to taste the dirt inside his mouth, the bitterness. As bitter as his want.

Should he hide the growing erection? It’s instinct when he lifts his hand, feeling small, but he stops in the middle of the movement, unsure. Brave maybe, but not brave enough. A coward, but not enough the coward he should have been, "I’m sorry," Peter says finally, even smaller than before.

"Fine." There’s no pity, yet Mr. Stark’s tone is soft and reassuring when he takes Peter’s hand and leads it further, further, further down. A wave of pleasure hits him like a slap to the face, like his own hand pressing between his legs, oh  _ oh–  _ Peter would gasp if he could. 

"Here’s ‘not okay’: It’s not okay to smoke inside my workshop without my permission, it’s not okay for you to smoke at all, it’s not okay you don’t even stop doing what’s not okay when I tell you to."

Harder.

"It’s not okay what I’m doing right now."

Peter’s eyes are chained to Mr. Stark pitchblack stare, cutting through him like a knife. If he were cut open, would the man like what he saw?

"Repeat."

"It’s not okay what I’m doing right now, Sir," Peter repeats.

And meanwhile he notices something: It’s the roughness of Mr. Stark’s hands. Little irregularities on the surface of the skin, breaking the smoothness like a crack on a window. Peter loves the flaws. Everything, really, that shines through the grinning picture of the perfect business man, hero, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. 

" _ No _ ." 

Peter flinches, the pressure on his hand ebbs away and he doesn’t dare to touch himself without Mr. Stark making him do it.

"It’s perfectly okay what I’m doing right now, hell, everything is perfectly okay with me. Repeat that."

Peter swallows. Now, that’s harder.

"Everything is okay with me," he tries, not believing it.

"Not exactly what I said." Tony might be near enough to safely call him by his first name. Peter could kiss him if he wanted to (if he wasn’t choking on his words:)

"It’s perfect-ly okay with – what I’m doing here, hell," he still feels the smoke burning holes inside his eyes, how strange. "Everything is perfectly – I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how to stop-" Peter starts rambling before Tony touches his cheek and the boy can’t bear to look at him anymore, mouth still moving, "It’s not your fault, Mr. Stark, I’m so fucked up and I really don’t want you to feel bad about it, _ I know you do,  _ but I tried to- and I still can’t stop-"

Mr. Starks rough thumb brushes his lips, "Word by word. It’s."

"Two words."

"Don’t get smart with me, Parker." The boy huffs a laugh, already dreading the moment Tony ends their little game. If you can call it a game, right.

"It’s," Peter repeats.

"Perfectly."

"Perfec-," he gasps at that, a calloused hand scratching against his own fingers, make him rub himself through the fabric of the trousers. He’s too hard to think, thank god he doesn’t need to think anymore, rasping a breathless, "Perfectly."

"Okay." The tip of Tony’s thumb pushing his own against the head of his erection, moving in circles. He chokes, "Okay."

"What."

"What," – a surprise when the warm hand grabs his own, forcing both into the warmth of his pants. Peter jumps a little, goosebumps showering him when he searches for Tony’s eyes again. It’s not hard to find them, and he does and leans forward and kisses his lips.

_ Panic. _

Tony’s hand embraces his own slowly, moving his fingers around his too hard cock. He’s kissing him back. And Peter feels light headed, like he’s driving a train against the wall. But if he’s going to crash their friendship, probably Tony will forgive him. Right.

"I." Tony sounds perfectly composed against the shivering lips of an eighteen year old Peter.

Still not sure what I is, Peter repeats it anyway, "I" – suddenly feeling a lot younger than eighteen.

"Want", He feels Tony’s tongue against his upper lip, innocent compared to the hand moving his own back and forth. Back and forth. Slowly, back and forth.

Peter moans, shutting his eyes "Want." 

_ Want. _

He comes apart. Pleasure building up at the bottom of his stomach, flooding his system like an overload, trainwreck, monster. He whines, quitely, and the first second of his orgasm he wants even more – flowers and kisses and touches and being together, being happy. Just being happy. 

Tony licks his lips softly, like everything could be possible, whispering, "Say it: I’m good."

Peter might come a second time if he wasn’t still in the process of coming, slowing wetting his pants, "I’m."

"You’re good." He makes him touch himself through the aftershocks, his fingertips accidentally brushing his skin, now and then.

"I’m good," Peter tries, kissing Tony’s chin, blinking. Can’t focus, too high. Cozy, when he tastes the man breathe heavy against his open mouth.

"And good kids don’t smoke."

"And good kids don’t-"

Peter looks up into Tony’s smiling eyes, "-smoke."

"Hmhm," Tony makes approvingly, sending another spark through Peter’s oversensitive body.

_ Oh. _

Tony clicks with his tongue and leaves the room, leaves Peter. And Peter is never gonna smoke again, that’s for damn sure.

*

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote that during a 10-hour flight. And thank you, DefendersofMCUniverse, for beta reading!


End file.
